Origins
by winryie
Summary: We all start somewhere, right? Some starts are just smoother than others. But the result is all the same.
1. Chapter 1

In the midst of the cold, dark night of February 1st, 1990, a lone baby's crying tore the silent cloak of England's night. Wrapped in nothing but a scrap cloth that was neither sufficient in providing warmth nor protecting the delicate little life form it enfolded; in a makeshift bed of snow-softened cardboard and a beat up mattress with springs and what little stuffing was left poking out it's threadbare exterior, a little redhead boy was left alone in the cold, cruel world. It was a rough beginning to what would be an equally rough, if not rougher, life that lay before him.

A straggled woman with filth-matted hair and an attire of rags hunched over the newly found bundle that was the source of the noise that had awaken her from her less-than-sweet dreams. The baby boy looked up and hiccupped his cries away, reaching out with small chubby fingers towards the homeless woman with a quiet giggle.

The woman shut her eyes dismally and spoke. "I would want to take you in, little child, but as we share the same fate, I have not the power nor will to care after you. But…I will take you to a better shelter on my way. Alas, there is nothing more I can do; there is not an orphanage within miles…Good luck," she finished as she carefully, with frail, bone-thin fingers, placed the small lump into a mailbox in front of a small house.

"Yes, a CHILD. I demand that you send someone to retrieve this insolent brat! I will not put up with this piece of TRASH that some irresponsible mother dumped in MY yard!" a voice screeched into a phone receiver.

"We'll…We'll send someone immediately, Mr. Jeevas, sir," the voice on the other end replied meekly. It was not uncommon that children would end up in strange places, and the finders of these children would often call into the orphanage to have them picked up, but not one has been as obnoxious and intolerable as this old man.

The young woman held the small form in her arms. "This one was apparently found in a mailbox, ma'am. Poor thing…We'll to take better care of you, won't we?" The last comment was cooed to the giggling baby.

"A miyale boks, you saiy?" The attendant of the orphanage had an odd accent, of which no one really found out was of what origin. It made her sound rather obnoxious and stuck up at times, and drunk in others, but the attendant was a kind and loving woman and all of the children and workers were fond of her.

"Then whuy don't weh name you Miyale Jeevus?" The attendant smiled and brushed the little boy's cheek with a gentle finger.

"Mail Jeevas? After that cranky old man?" the young employee chuckled, "We better not let that old geezer find out about this!"

The days at the orphanage began warm and loving, but the year Mail had turned five, the attendant had passed away, to be replaced with her foul, uncaring daughter. Though the new attendant did not inherit her mother's accent, all have become accustomed to referring to Mail as "Mile".

Mail was not a shy boy, as most adults misconceived. He was quiet, and kept to himself because he preferred solitude. Clad with a pair of oversized orange-tinted goggles the previous attendant had given him, he would spend days on end in his room alone, battering away at an old game system.

Though Mail was an intelligent child, he would often skip his classes, which brought him into the caretakers' concern. _Perhaps his intelligence was below average?_ They would wonder.

The year Mail turned seven, the attendant was fed up with the little redhead boy. (And yes, how little he was. Mail was pale and scrawny, due to the fact that he ate little and saw little sunlight. Most potential adoptive parents silently accused the orphanage of abusing him.) The attendant brought in a specialist who dealt with _special_ children to test Mail's intelligence. Oh how amused Mail was when he saw the woman's expression; Mail had scored 192 on his IQ test.

Mail would be transferring to a new orphanage for child geniuses the next month.

* * *

**A/N:** Lol, no one (especially not hobos) talks all poetic and whatnot like that hobo woman…But I wasn't going to have her be like "YO. I wanna take you in, brat, but I can't. So I'll put you in this mailbox."

Matt/Mail fans should know that "Mail" is actually said like "mile". I just wanted to make up a reason why anyone would ever say it like that, haha…

Next one's about Mello C:


	2. Chapter 2

In the early hours of December 13, 1989, a slightly different fate's string was spun. A small blonde boy was born into an affluent German family.

"It's a boy!" the overjoyed father whispered to his weary wife. "What will we name him?"

"…Mihael, an angel's name, for our little angel," She smiled as she held the little, wriggling bundle.

"Mihael Keehl…Mihael Keehl. It has a nice sound to it," He grinned as he took his beloved wife and newborn into his arms.

On Mihael's eighth birthday, the angels came to take his parents away.

It was a bright, young morning, and Mihael was still hazy from sleep. Plans had been made for the day with the utmost care, and there was a light joyful aura in the mansion, even among the servants. The young master's birthday was a grand event, after all.

The celebration and cheer, however, was tragically cut short by gunshots and screaming. A gang that had a vendetta with Mihael's father had sent a group of men to dispose of him. Mihael's father, though a kind man adored by many, was the head of an illegal organization and had become enemies of many, intentional or otherwise.

The uninvited guests opened fire at the luxurious household without mercy, and murdered Mr. and Mrs. Keehl, along with the many maids and workers at the mansion. Mihael, fortunately, had still been sleeping, and was left unharmed in his bedroom. The gunshots had awoken the little boy though, and he cautiously left his room to investigate seconds after the gang's men had left.

Little Mihael, with his unbrushed angel hair sticking up at odd ends, and rumpled clothes, flew down the stair faster than he had on any Christmas morning. The strong, rancid smell of metallic blood formed a deathly miasma around him as he took in the bloody scene before him.

"MUM! DAD!" Mihael cried desperately, over and over until his voice went hoarse, tears streaming down his face all the while.

Mihael ceased speaking after the tragedy happened. He only cried until he had no more tears to shed, and became a cold, emotionless shell instead. Mihael, with no living relatives in existence, was sent to live at the Wammy House, where he continued his silent mourning. Or he did, at least, until he met a certain redhead.


End file.
